


Imagine Me And You (I Do)

by BlackUnicorn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Crowley Has All the Genders (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Dates, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Happy Ending, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Sex, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Read the notes please, Sex Work, Sex Worker Crowley (Good Omens), but no sex, i reapeat, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24440680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackUnicorn/pseuds/BlackUnicorn
Summary: “Next,” the kid called out and Crowley stepped out of the way, “What can I get you?”“An Earl Grey would be lovely,” the person next in line said, voice practically vibrating with excitement and joy, “Two plain scones. Oh, and some of that scrumptious looking lemon drizzle you have there. Thank you, dear.”Once again, the kid stared, and Crowley couldn’t help but turn around and stare as well – a halo of curls so blond they looked white in the light of the sun, bright blue eyes that shone with unmasked delight, a smile so wide it was almost blinding. And beige. A whole lot of beige.“Name?”“Azra.”If Azra was aware of the attention he was getting from both the barista and Crowley, he didn’t show it, simply kept on smiling a smile that kind of made Crowley want to do all sorts of unspeakable things, like ask for his number, like take him out to dinner, like curl up on a couch with him and eat ice cream straight from the tub while watching James Bond together, like –An asexual sex worker and a bookseller who doesn't sell books - stranger things have happened, for sure.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 229
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, gals, and non-binary pals, I present you - my coping mechanism for the worst summer of my life.  
> I kinda based Crowley's feelings around the whole sex thing on my own and there is no sex happening in this fic. It's mentioned in relation to Crowley's job, but that's it.   
> I, myself, am not a sex worker. If you are, or someone you know is, or you just want information, there's some pretty good websites and organisations out there around sex worker's right (SWARM in the UK; SWAI in Ireland).  
> Crowley also changes pronouns a lot. I tried to make it as clear as possible when I talk about him/her/them but if it's ever confusing, do let me know.  
> Anyway, enjoy and stay safe.

Crowley glared at the open wardrobe.

The problem wasn’t that it wasn’t filled with enough clothes, but rather the opposite. There were too many clothes. Too many choices. Skirts, and trousers, and dresses, and sweaters, and shirts, and blazers, and crop tops, and t-shirts, all in varying shades of black with the occasional red thrown in.

Crowley glared at the open wardrobe and was painfully aware that time kept passing while doing so.

And then the phone rang.

“ _Where are you?_ ” Anathema’s voice sounded through the device.

“Argh. Urgh. On – er – on my way,” Crowley answered as smoothly as possible for someone who had woken up barely half an hour ago. That is to say, not smoothly at all.

There was a beat in which Anathema was, no doubt, seeping through the useless consonants to get to the message underneath, before saying, “ _You’re not even dressed, are you?_ ”

“Gimme fifteen,” Crowley said and quickly hung up before Anathema could spout out even more uncomfortable truths.

The small distraction had done exactly nothing to help solve Crowley’s current dilemma and the wardrobe was still open and presented way too many choices.

With a heavy sigh and a muttered, “Fuck it,” Crowley shut the doors and turned towards the Chair which was overflowing with more black, black, and black, and one, singular, white _Pits & Perverts_ shirt – it was the latter that Crowley picked up now, sniffing it and finding that it didn’t smell too bad.

_Good enough._

Ten minutes of loud swearing, hasty make-up, loud swearing, hasty hair combing, and even more loud swearing later, Crowley was finally able to grab the keys from the bowl by the door and head outside to meet Anathema for lunch.

Predictably, she was not amused.

“You’re late,” she pointed out, one perfectly plucked eyebrow arched upwards towards her not so perfectly styled hair.

“You’re the one wanting to meet up at such an ungodly hour,” Crowley retorted and stripped off the leather jacket that was always present no matter the weather, before going to the counter to get some coffee. “Americano, please.”

“Name?”

“Crowley.”

The kid taking the order stared for the infinity of a whole five seconds before blinking, shaking their head ever so slightly, and scribbling down a name that most likely was nowhere near ‘Crowley’.

“Next,” the kid called out and Crowley stepped out of the way, “What can I get you?”

“An Earl Grey would be lovely,” the person next in line said, voice practically vibrating with excitement and joy, “Two plain scones. Oh, and some of that scrumptious looking lemon drizzle you have there. Thank you, dear.”

Once again, the kid stared, and Crowley couldn’t help but turn around and stare as well – a halo of curls so blond they looked white in the light of the sun, bright blue eyes that shone with unmasked delight, a smile so wide it was almost blinding. And beige. A whole lot of beige.

“Name?”

“Azra.”

If Azra was aware of the attention he was getting from both the barista and Crowley, he didn’t show it, simply kept on smiling a smile that kind of made Crowley want to do all sorts of unspeakable things, like ask for his number, like take him out to dinner, like curl up on a couch with him and eat ice cream straight from the tub while watching James Bond together, like –

“Carly!”

The shout made Crowley jump as the vivid and frankly scandalising daydreams were so rudely interrupted, but that was, perhaps, just as well. Considering.

Taking the coffee, Crowley walked back to the table where Anathema was still waiting and sat down. “Now, what is so urgent that it couldn’t wait until you came home later?”

The paleness taking over Anathema’s cheeks was worrisome to say the least, but Crowley knew better than to say something now, instead giving her the time to speak up for herself.

“I messed up,” she eventually said, shoulders tight and hands clutching her keep-cup, “I ran into Newt this morning and he asked me out and I said yes.”

Crowley’s first instinct was to curse, but then decided against it, since that really wouldn’t help anyone at the moment. “Asked you out, how exactly?”

“Out-out. On a date. He specifically said it’s a date.”

Crowley hummed and blew air into the pitch-black coffee that proudly belonged to ‘Carly’. “Do you want to go on a date with him?”

“I – I don’t – that’s not the point,” Anathema answered, “I shouldn’t.”

“But do you want to?” Crowley persisted and Anathema faltered. It was barely visible, except for someone who knew her well. Like Crowley.

“I – maybe? Kind of. I don’t know.”

Crowley nodded, taking a moment to think, not wanting to make her feel even worse than she was already feeling even if she had, as she had so eloquently put it, messed up. “How often d’you see him again? Before this?”

“Just the once,” Anathema answered, still looking infinitely miserable about her decision, “He was awkward. Not really into it. You know how it can go.”

Crowley did, in fact, know how it could go.

Prostitution, some called it, whoring. Sex work. Crowley didn’t much care for the name, only that it brought in the money necessary to survive in a city like London. It was a job, nothing less, nothing more, a job Crowley had been doing for some fifteen years now. And some clients were, for lack of a better word, blushing virgins who couldn’t tell ass and tits apart.

“And you ran into him this morning?” Crowley probed, following a nagging suspicion, hoping to be wrong.

“I did.” Anathema nodded. “He’s studying computer engineering and works in the coffee shop on campus, remember?” Crowley didn’t remember, “Nearly fainted the first time he saw me there. We’ve been…talking…I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then…”

“Then he asked you out,” Crowley completed the sentence. It didn’t necessarily sound like this Newt had been stalking Anathema but, then again, you couldn’t always tell, could you?

“Then he asked me out.”

“You told Tracy, yet?”

Anathema shook her head. “No,” she said, “I wanted to run it past you first. I can still cancel.”

It was tricky, Crowley knew, but – “Do you want to? Cancel?”

“Not really.”

“Then don’t.” Crowley shrugged, unsure of what else to say. Sure, it would be better if this wasn’t happening – getting involved with clients never ended well – but at the same time…Anathema was a grown woman, perfectly capable of making her own choices. “See where it goes. Set your boundaries. Make sure he respects your boundaries. Come to me if you need help with hiding the body.”

“Thanks,” Anathema said drily, but the slight twitch in her lips told Crowley that she did appreciate the advice.

“Also, call Tracy and tell her about it. She’ll find out eventually anyway. She always does.”

Anathema agreed, seeming more relaxed now, a weight lifted from her shoulders, and Crowley deigned it safe to move the conversation towards other topics – her Master thesis being one of them.

“Oh, that reminds me,” she said, “There’s this bookshop that apparently has a lot of books on prophecies. I’ve been told the owner is very eccentric and doesn’t like actually selling them, but maybe he’ll let me use them for my studies? I was thinking of going over there later, what d’you think?”

“Urgh.” Crowley groaned, “You know I don’t like books.”

“You don’t like reading books,” Anathema pointed out, “You love listening to them. There’s a difference.”

And because Crowley was already awake anyway, and because it was one of those days where _you might as well_ , and because Anathema was pretty much the only friend Crowley had, they both finished their drinks and stood up to go.

* * *

The bookshop, it turned out, was just up the road. A quaint little thing with dirty windows and books so old they threatened to fall apart if you as much as looked at them the wrong way, and despite Crowley’s self-proclaimed dislike for books, it was undeniable that this was nice. There was something about the smell of dust and days of yore hanging in the air, something about the low lights and high shelves and ancient furniture that made Crowley feel _safe_.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from between the shadows, smooth and kind and familiar, and then the man with the angel curls – _Azra_ , Crowley remembered – stepped forward.

There was something about this man, too. Something safe. It made even less sense than the bookshop, in fact, it was ridiculous. And yet…the roundness of his cheeks, his arms, his belly, the crow’s feet around his eyes, the sincerity of his smile – the sort of man to take you out to dinner, to walk you home and give you roses and a kiss on the cheek.

 _The sort of man to pay for a quick fuck and stink of regret and repression afterwards_ , the part of Crowley’s brain that knew intimately well how the world worked supplied, a reminder which Crowley accepted gladly. It was better that way. _The sort of man to come to you for services and then judge you for delivering them_.

Next to Crowley, Anathema seemed oblivious to her friend’s inner turmoil and said, “Mr. Fell, is it? It’s an honour to meet you. I’m Anathema Device and I’m currently writing my Master thesis on the influence of prophetic texts history, I’ve been told you have an impressive collection of books around the topic?”

The corners around Mr. Fell’s mouth tightened as his smile turned into something resembling a pained grimace rather than anything else. “I do, indeed,” he answered curtly, but again Anathema didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she simply ignored it, giving him her widest, sweetest smile. Crowley had to give it to her, she was a good actress.

“Would you mind – that is – would it be possible if I used them for references?” Anathema asked, sounding uncharacteristically coy, before quickly adding, “Under your supervision, of course. It’s just…I don’t have the money to buy them at the moment, but without them my whole thesis is useless, and it’s impossible to find good literature on this topic anywhere else.” That part, at least, was the truth. Uni wasn’t cheap and neither was living in London, and the books that Anathema had her eyes on cost, as far as Crowley knew, a small fortune that neither of them had.

Any half-respectable businessman would have, at this point, probably scoffed and told Anathema where exactly she could stick her request, but Mr. Fell didn’t appear to be much of a businessman, respectable or otherwise. The tightness around his lips loosened as they formed a perfect O, before he answered, “Why, of course, dear. Right this way, I have some first editions that are simply perfect! And would you like some tea? Or a hot cocoa, perhaps? I’m sure I have biscuits in the pantry as well, if you’re feeling peckish…” The man’s voice faded as he vanished into the back of the shop, leaving his two not-customers utterly befuddled and slightly bemused.

“That was easy,” Anathema muttered, and Crowley nodded. It had, admittedly, been very easy.

* * *

Crowley did not like reading books. The letters never stayed where they were supposed to stay, words didn’t make sense, and sentences dragged on and on and on. That, of course, didn’t mean that Crowley couldn’t appreciate a good story – quite the opposite actually – the problem was just if that story came in a written format.

Not that that fact stopped Crowley now from picking up books at random and leafing through them.

Somewhere in the backroom, Anathema and Mr. Fell were animatedly talking about someone or something called Agnes Nutter, almost as if they’d both forgotten about Crowley’s existence, which was fine, really. No biggie. Except that Crowley could have spent the last 30 minutes at home, taking a nap.

 _I could still do that_ , Crowley thought, and thus, the decision was made.

The scene presenting itself to Crowley was one of intense nerdhood. Anathema and Mr. Fell were both sitting at a table covered in books, noses stuck in a massive tome that you usually only got to see on TV or behind glass panels.

“Right,” Crowley said, wincing slightly at the awkward tone, “I’m off. I’ve got…stuff.”

Anathema barely acknowledged what Crowley was saying, apparently too wrapped up in her book, but Mr. Fell looked up in surprise.

“Already?” he asked, as if he hadn’t spent the last half hour ignoring Crowley, “Well, mind how you go, dear girl.”

Inwardly, Crowley eyed the offered gender suspiciously before sighing and declining it with a polite _no, thank you_. It was an easy enough mistake to make, to be fair, considering the female-section skinny jeans, make-up, and messily braided long hair. It was just one of those days.

Outwardly, Crowley gave a short nod and turned to leave but was, in the last second, held back by Anathema.

“Hold up! You going home?” Crowley nodded. “Would you mind taking some of these with you? I need to go back to campus in a bit and they’re a bit heavy to carry around.” This time, Crowley very much sighed out loud at the sight of the pile of books Anathema was pointing at. “Pretty please?”

“Fine.”

And that’s how Crowley ended up carrying a hazardously high pile of books through the streets of London towards home.


	2. Chapter 2

The door was locked and Azra was sitting in his favourite armchair in the backroom with his favourite mug of steaming hot cocoa and his favourite book waiting to be re-re-re-re-re-re-read, but somehow, for reasons way beyond the scope of the comprehensible, his thoughts kept circling back to the two women. There had been nothing remarkable about it, really – university students came to him all the time, stuttering and stammering their way through requesting free access to his books and generally treating his bookshop as a private library, and Azra was always more than happy to oblige since it meant one less potential customer.

Oh, and how delightful the one called Anathema had been!

But she wasn’t who Azra was thinking about. Not at all. The other one – fiery red hair and cutting sharp edges and Azra found himself really rather confused. He’d always been comfortable calling himself a gay man with not much interest in the pleasures of the flesh, at the very least in the privacy of his own head, but there was something about this woman that wouldn’t leave his mind. Something mesmerising. Something forbidden.

“Oh dear,” he muttered to himself, “What has gotten into me?”

He was, of course, well aware of the loneliness that crept up on him from time to time and lately simply stayed and stayed and stayed, with no signs of leaving in the foreseeable future. And he was well aware of his lack of friends – perhaps, dear old Madame Tracy would be the closest thing and even she was more a longstanding acquaintance than anything else. Someone to borrow sugar from and maybe drink a coffee with but that’s as far as it went.

“And none of that is any excuse for such improper thoughts!” he said sternly to his angel-winged mug which sat still and silent on the coffee table, as inanimate objects were wont to do, before very deliberately opening the book in his lab.

Any further existential crises would simply have to wait.

* * *

Azra had always had a particular appreciation for the finer things in life – decadence, some might call it, hedonism. Be it wine or food or a good book, Azra didn’t think he could spare any of it.

“It’s gluttonous, brother,” Gabriel would tell him every once in a while, with increasing frequency as the years went by which was an impressive feat considering they barely saw each other twice a year, with the occasional phone call sprinkled in. But then again, Gabriel always loved criticising Azra – “You let yourself go,” he’d say, “You have to start making an effort,” he’d say, “Just look at me!”. And look at him, Azra did. Or had, rather. Gabriel with his flashy teeth and slick hair. Gabriel with his perfect wife and son. Gabriel with his house and garden and car. It had taken near 20 years for Azra to even consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, his brother wasn’t the apotheosis of perfection he’d always made himself out to be; not that Azra would ever admit that out loud, but it was the thought that counted, as they say.

Azra had always had a particular appreciation for the finer things in life and it was more likely for the world to end in fire and flames than for him to miss lunchtime. The lovely café at the end of the road was his favourite, as of late. The staff was kind and their cakes and pastries absolutely scrumptious and none of it had anything to do with the fact that, the last time Azra had been here, he’d seen the beautiful redhead. No sir, nothing at all.

Azra had also always been particularly good at lying to himself.

“What can I get ya?” the woman behind the counter asked, smiling her customer-service smile.

“A hot cocoa please,” Azra answered, trying and almost succeeding not to be too disappointed that Anathema’s friend wasn’t there, “And two of the cheese and onion quiches, thank you ever so much.”

“Name?”

“Azra.”

Azra had always had a particular appreciation for the finer things in life and he certainly wasn’t going to let some stranger ruin that. Not now. Not ever.

* * *

There had been far too many customers today. Not that any of them had actually bought anything, God forbid, but it probably was high time to close the shop and dissuade any more people from wandering in and pawing his precious possessions.

And then She came in. Or was it He?

“Hi, sorry. I’m Anathema’s friend? The one writing her master thesis on prophecies? I was here the other day with her and she took some books? I’m just here to bring them back. She’s busy.”

Sh – he – _they_ looked different. Hair still as long and vibrant as ever but without the make-up and braids it was rather hard to tell what they identified as and Azra had a terrible feeling that he might have misgendered and terribly offended this beautiful person the last time they’d met. The t-shirt was replaced by a low-cut v-neck and the red hair hung loosely over their shoulders, eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses.

“O – of course. Yes. Just set them down over there. Thanks ever so much,” Azra managed to say even though his brain had gone on a spontaneous strike, “I hope you’ve been well?” Azra winced at his own awkwardness but it was already too late. The words were out there and there was nothing he could do about it. And anyway, he was being quite ridiculous, wasn’t he?

“Yeah. Yep. Doing great. Never better,” the redhead answered, tripping over the words like someone with only minimal understanding of how language worked as they carefully placed the stack of books on the table Azra had pointed at.

“Good.” Azra nodded, unsure of what else to say, what else to do. “That’s good.” He kept nodding, his head moving on its own accord. “I’m Azra, by the way. Azra Fell.”

“Crowley.”

It was an odd name, for sure, but Azra just about managed to refrain from remarking upon it, out of fear, perhaps, to put any more feet in his mouth. He wasn’t sure.

“Nice to meet you,” he said instead, offering his hand.

There was a beat, and Azra couldn’t be sure of course but he thought Crowley was staring at the hand from behind their sunglasses, before accepting it.

“Nice. Yeah,” they said, shaking the hand.

And shaking it.

And shaking it.

Some part of Azra’s brain was screaming at him to _let go and stop being so awkward_ , while the rest was just screaming. Loudly.

They were still shaking hands.

“ _Ohh love, ohh lover-boy. What’re you doin’ tonight – hey, boy?_ ”

Azra frowned at the music, trying to place it, while Crowley tore their hands apart and scrambled to get something out of their pocket.

“Sorry. Sorry,” they muttered, a persistent pink tinge spreading over their cheeks as they pulled out their phone. Azra, for his part, wasn’t faring much better though, if the heat in his own face was anything to go by.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered again before raising the phone to their ear, “Yes?”

Azra wasn’t sure what to do. Should he turn away? Walk into the back of the shop and give Crowley some privacy? But then, what if the call didn’t take long? Would Crowley leave? Did Azra want them to leave?

“No. No, that works fine by me,” Crowley was speaking into the phone now, “Thanks, Trace. See you later.” The phone was squeezed back into the impossibly tight pocket of Crowley’s impossibly tight trousers – a rather impressive feat, Azra found – before they ran a hand through their hair and muttered, once again, “Sorry.”

“No worries, dear. I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything important.”

“No,” Crowley answered, shaking their head, “That was just. Work. Stuff.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“Taxes.”

The silence falling over them was heavy and stifling, a blanket of awkwardness, and yet all Azra wanted to do was take it and wrap it tighter around the both of them.

“Right, I –”

“Would you –”

They both paused and froze, the blanket getting even heavier, a crushing weight that should not, under any circumstances, ever be welcomed. And yet.

Crowley made a vague motion with their hand, signalling Azra to go on.

“I was wondering,” Azra said over the sound of his pounding heart, “I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

He regretted the question almost immediately. Crowley had just come by to drop off the books and now Azra had gone and done _that_ and –

“Sure.” Azra’s thought screeched to a halt. Surely, he’d misheard. “Big fan of tea. Me.”

Apparently, not.

“Splendid!” he exclaimed and quickly flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’ before rushing into the back, “Do come this way, dear. I’m afraid I’m all out of loose-leaf, but there’s Jaffa Cakes, if you’re interested. I personally don’t like them very much, to be honest – not the right texture.” He was rambling, he knew. Spewing out horribly trivial things that were, incidentally, also beyond boring, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop. “Now Eve, she likes them. She’s a student. Biology. Smart girl. She likes to come here to study, so I always make sure to have some on hand.” _Shut up. Shut up. Shut up_. “Make yourself at home while I put the kettle on. I could also make cocoa, if you like.”

“Tea’s fine,” Crowley muttered, sitting down on the couch, or rather sprawling out on it, effectively covering every last inch with long, lanky limbs that quite possibly shouldn’t be able to bend that way without dislocating.

“Tea it is.”

Azra was more than grateful for the opportunity to leave and regroup and maybe figure out why he was being such an idiot. Now, it was true that he’d never been all that good at socialising, always preferring the peace and quiet of a good book where everything was possible and the words drew you in, and in, and in, until the world around you faded away into nothing but a vague shadow of reality.

The kettle clicked, rousing Azra from his musing and he quickly poured the water into two angel wing mugs that were already waiting on a tray alongside the sugar, milk and a small plate with Jaffa Cakes. Taking one last deep breath, Azra steeled himself and carried the tray into the next room where Crowley was still half-lying on the sofa like something hastily discarded and forgotten.

“Thanks,” they said when Azra set the tray down on the small table.

“You’re very welcome.” He sat down and picked up one of the mugs, cradling it between his hands and blowing air over the steaming hot tea, considering Crowley. It seemed like the both of them had successfully used the time it had taken Azra to make the tea to re-find their footings, though why they had lost that in the first place was a question Azra didn’t particularly want to look at too closely.

“Why’d you give the books to Anathema?”

“Pardon?”

Crowley shifted and sat up, leaning forward to pour milk into their tea. “She said you were eccentric,” they began, steering the tea, “And I googled you. They say all kinds of nasty stuff about you, you know? You don’t sell books. You’re like a – a – a dragon or somethin’ that’s protecting its hoard. So, why’d you give them to her?” There was a smile playing around the corners of Crowley’s lips, teasing and intrigued and genuine and Azra couldn’t help but smile back, finally relaxing into his armchair.

“You’re quite right,” he answered, “I tend to not sell my books and I admit that I do get quite… _attached_ …to them.” Crowley let out a soft snort which Azra ignored. “But I also believe that someone who seeks knowledge should be encouraged to do so and if my books can be of assistance then I am willing to… _lend_ …them. If the person seems trustworthy enough, that is.”

“Seems to me,” Crowley said, picking up a Jaffa Cake and biting it in half, “That you’re in the wrong business. Should have become a librarian.” The smile was still there, sharper but not any less genuine.

“Perhaps.” If he could just keep that smile on Crowley’s face…

“Come on, then,” Crowley prompted, relaxing back onto the sofa, “Tell me about your hoard.”

“Oh.” Azra could feel his eyes shine as he perked up. “Have you read much Wilde?”

Crowley shook their head, still smiling. “Can’t say I have,” they answered, “But why don’t you tell me all about it?”

So, Azra did just that.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley was still swearing under her breath when she arrived at Tracy’s.

“Where’ve you been?” Crowley froze mid-step at Anathema’s question and slowly turned to look at her friend sitting at Tracy’s table, wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe and holding a cup of herbal tea in her hands.

“Nowhere,” she answered quickly, and Anathema frowned.

“What happened?” she asked, sounding far more concerned now rather than disapproving, “You’re acting weird. Why are you acting weird?”

“’m not. Not acting weird. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing weird about it.” Inwardly, Crowley cursed her own tongue for being so bloody loose all the time and her brain for being such a mess and –

“Ahh, there you are!” And Crowley had never been gladder to hear good old Tracy’s voice. “You’re late. You have a client in 15 minutes, go and get ready.”

Grateful for the interruption and excuse to not continue the conversation with Anathema, Crowley rushed towards the bathroom to clean up and change into her work clothes without even sparing one stray thought for fussy, soft, blond men, or cluttered yet strangely comfortable bookshops or fucking Jaffa Cakes. She didn’t even like Jaffa Cakes.

The thing was, Crowley was, more often than not, written off as the rebel, the down-on-their-luck ne’er-do-well delinquent, the school-dropout, the whore, the fuck up. And maybe she was all of those but that really wasn’t the point. The point was that, for first time in a very long time, someone had somehow looked beyond all that and _seen_ her and decided to talk about the stars and the universe, and bloody Shakespeare, and Crowley would be lying if she said that she hadn’t enjoyed that, and she would be lying even more if she said that it hadn’t scared her shitless.

_Who does he think he is?_

Perhaps it was just as well that Bee would be here in ten minutes, effectively forcing Crowley to focus on her job and nothing but her job, but not before silently vowing to never step foot into that wretched bookshop ever again.

* * *

Three days. That’s how long Crowley managed to not go back. Three blessed, beautiful days. And then – “Crowley, could you get this book back to Mr. Fell? I forgot about it the last time and I need to get ready for my date with Newt.”

And then – “Nghk. Yeah. Sure. No problem.”

And _then_ – “Oh, hello, it’s so good to see you, how’ve you been, dear?”

And that was it – Hook, line and sinker. Azra had smiled a smile big and bright enough to power a small country for the foreseeable future and Crowley hit rock bottom with no prospects of ever getting up again.

It became a Thing.

Somehow, whenever Anathema needed to get or return a book, she’d sent Crowley because “uni’s just so stressful, right now,” and, “Newt wants to get coffee,” and, “I forgot that Haley has a nut allergy and I her gave some cake and now we’re in the hospital”, although, to be fair, that last one had really just been once and had been a genuine emergency. Still.

It became a Thing and Crowley really didn’t like Things and then it wasn’t even Anathema anymore who sent Crowley but Crowley who actively sought out the bookshop with flimsy, stuttered excuses.

“Brought some new Jaffa Cakes since I ate all of yours,” she told him one time.

“I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d see if you wanted to get lunch,” he said another time.

“There’s this nice ice cream place that opened up just a couple streets away, wanna go?” he asked now.

And always, Azra would smile that bright smile of his and _wiggle_ and say, “why, of course, dear”.

And always, they’d share food and drinks of various kinds.

And always, they’d talk.

Oh, how they talked.

Azra told Crowley about all the books he read and loved, while Crowley made sure to give whole-bodied eyerolls and pointed remarks on how one could just watch the movies and be done with it, only to go home and immediately download the audiobooks. Crowley would wax lyrical over Queen and David Bowie, and Azra would scoff and shake his head and mutter “bebop” under his breath, but Crowley could have sworn that the unmistakable voice of Freddy Mercury had sounded from the backroom of the bookshop the last time Crowley had dropped in, with Azra softly singing along. They discussed politics and travelling, told each other stories of drunken nights and sober mornings, and bickered over the right way to eat a scone, and the more they spoke, the more they spent time together, the more they got to know each other, the harder it was for Crowley to stay away. It was like a drug. Azra’s beauty and brilliance, the stars in his eyes when he talked about the things he truly loved, the smile that darkened everything around them.

And what a beauty Azra was. Soft. There was no better word for it. His angelic curls and eyes like the sky on a mid-summer day, perfectly round body and plump hands, made for holding close and never letting go, his words precise and gentle, filled with mirth.

“There’s this nice ice cream place that opened up just a couple streets away, wanna go?”

They were in the bookshop, the sun shining down upon the streets of London, giving Crowley a perfect excuse to wear his glasses to hide his eyes – treacherous things, they were, always betraying his every emotion.

“What a wonderful idea,” Azra answered, setting down the book he’d been holding, “Let me just close up the shop.”

It didn’t take long, and before Crowley knew it, he and Azra were walking side by side through Soho, their arms brushing ever so often, while Azra recounted the horrors of a particularly insistent customer who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“It is first edition, Crowley!” Azra whined, “I’ve had it for such a long time now, it hurts to even think of parting from it.”

“Don’t then,” Crowley answered, “Seems to me, she doesn’t appreciate it nearly as much as you do.”

The ice cream was good. Really good, even. Or perhaps it was just the blissed-out face and the little hums and moans Azra made when eating it that were downright indecent for a public place such as this.

It was getting ridiculous.

It was getting dangerous.

Crowley had never been in love. Had never really thought he could be in love. And what was the point, anyway? You started dating someone and your two options were, either, break up, or, stay together for the rest of your lives – both options seemed rather over the top.

And yet.

It was getting pathetic.

Azra was _good_ and _kind_ and _nice_ and Crowley just…wasn’t. Any of that.

And yet.

“My dear,” Azra began, dapping the corner of his mouth with a serviette, completely oblivious to Crowley who might have died a little at the addition Azra had made to his ridiculous ‘dear’, “How would you feel about a walk in the park? We could feed the ducks.”

_Anything you want, angel._

“Sure…might as well.”

It was getting tragic.

* * *

“You’re acting weird,” Anathema noted, her eyes narrowed and fixed onto Crowley, “Again.”

Crowley’s hand stopped mid-movement, just for a second, before it hastily went back to stirring the tea in front of him. “’m not acting weird,” he said, inspecting the black nail polish on his fingers that was desperate for a re-doing.

“Yes, you are,” Anathema insisted, leaning forward over the table to meet Crowley’s eyes, “You’ve been acting weird for days now. First you were all sulky, and now you’re –” She waved her hands around, as if that would make her meaning clear, as he visibly searched for the right word. “—Happy,” she finally settled.

“I’m happy,” Crowley protested, forgetting that his nails were supposed to be more important and instead staring at his friend in mild offence. Anathema, for her part, merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Sometimes,” Crowley conceded. The eyebrow rose up further and was joined by a second one. “m’ not acting weird.”

“Crowley…” Anathema trailed off and sighed, while Crowley went back to picking on the nail polish, “If you’re in trouble or something, you know that –”

“I’m not in trouble.” Except he was, wasn’t he? Just not the way Anathema thought. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine – How’s Newt?”

Anathema blinked at the sudden change of subject but apparently decided to humour him. “Trying not to fail his classes a third time in a row,” she answered, “Why he keeps insisting on studying computer engineering is beyond me but, well…it’s his dream.”

“Sounds like an idiot,” Crowley muttered, sounding much more sardonic than he had meant to.

“Oh, did we go back to being sulky?” Anathema snapped, sending the chair scraping over the floor as she stood up and walked over to the sink, “He’s really quite nice, you know.” _Clunk_. The mug landed in the sink. “I think you’d like him.”

_Oh, I bet he’s nice_ , Crowley thought, _those are the worst kind. The nice ones_.

“I met him once, remember?”

“When he was my client. That was different.” Anathema turned away and opened the fridge while Crowley shook his head.

_It’s no good_ , he thought, _he’s gonna find out and then he’ll run screaming the other way and say ‘good riddance’_ , except his mouth was moving along to the words and his voice, low and filled with bitterness, was audible in the silence of the kitchen.

At the fridge, Anathema froze and turned around. “Are we still talking about Newt?” she asked slowly, “Because that didn’t sound like – hang on –” Crowley could practically watch her connecting the dots, unable to do anything about it. “Did you meet someone? Someone you like?”

“Shut it, Device.”

“You did!”

“I said shut it!”

“Is it someone I know?” Anathema asked, seeming way too excited and invested in the whole affair.

Inwardly, Crowley groaned, curled up in a corner, and died.

Outwardly, he said, “No!” as vehemently as possible, before adding, “You don’t know him. No one knows him. It doesn’t matter. He’s not – he’s not like me.”

“Like what? Obnoxiously sarcastic and overly dramatic while trying to hide the big marshmallow and crippling anxiety inside? ‘Cause I hope not. I don’t think the world could take it.”

“Oi! I’m a delight to be around.”

Anathema smirked. “Occasionally.”

She was teasing of course, Crowley knew that much, but what if – Azra seemed to like him well enough, but then again, Azra seemed to like everyone well enough as long as they didn’t touch his books. What if Azra was simply too polite to tell him to shove off? What if Azra was actually annoyed by him? What if Azra merely indulged him out of pity? What if –

“You really like him, don’t you?” Anathema’s voice cut through the frantically racing thoughts in his head. The smirk was gone, replaced by a frown.

“We will _not_ talk about this.”

Anathema kept frowning as the seconds ticked by, and Crowley already mentally prepared himself for the discussion that was sure to come –

“Okay.” _Huh?_ “I’ll stop asking,” Anathema seemed to agree, “If you come to lunch with me and Newt tomorrow and behave yourself.”

“That – that – that – that’s blackmail!” Crowley cried out, staring at his friend who was smiling back at him, innocent and sweet as sugar, “Fine.”

“Perfect.” As if nothing had happened, Anathema swept around and back towards the fridge, “I was thinking a quick stir-fry before we go to work?”

“Fine.” Crowley stood up and got to work on chopping the onions; _perhaps_ , he thought, _a little crying will do me good_.


	4. Chapter 4

Azra dreamed. Fiery red hair and eyes of light brown that glowed like ambers in the sun. Delicate hands and slender fingers and painted nails. Narrow hips that barely supported the skinny jeans they were wont to wear. A mind so bright it put good old William to shame.

Azra dreamed but he did not sleep.

The past few days and weeks had been like nothing Azra had ever felt or seen and the mere thought of losing it made his heart heavy with sorrow. _Crowley_ was nothing like Azra had ever felt or seen, turning Azra’s entire world upside down with nothing more than a smile. His comfortable loneliness had been replaced by something infinitely better and yet, also, infinitely worse – what if Crowley did leave? What if Crowley decided that Azra was not worth the effort? What if Crowley saw him as nothing more than a quick flirt?

_Are we flirting?_ Azra wondered, thinking back to the previous day. They’d gotten ice cream and fed the ducks in St. James. He couldn’t tell. Azra’s experience with flirting and relationships was not what one might call extensive and even the little he had, had been some 20 years ago.

_Oh, good lord, I am far too old for this._

Perhaps some lunch would put his mind off things. It was about that time of day anyway, and a good meal was usually always a good way to make the world seem a little brighter. Besides, thoughts on an empty stomach were never as good as they could be.

Azra had half a mind to text Crowley and ask if they wanted to join him but then decided against it – if he was to ponder on his situation with Crowley, it probably wouldn’t help to have Crowley there with him at the table, watching him from behind dark glasses and smiling indulgently while Azra ate, as if he was the only thing in the world that existed, as if – _Oh, good lord!_ – Azra interrupted his own thoughts, decisively stood up from his armchair and put on his coat, despite the warm weather outside.

It was a nice walk to Berkeley Square. Azra had always enjoyed exploring London on foot – a metropolis, a tiny little world on its own, filled with so much _life_. The very heart of the country, ever-pulsing, ever-changing, ever-moving.

_Stagnation is death_ , wasn’t that how the saying went?

And London lived.

And _Azra_ lived.

There was a lovely Italian restaurant overseeing Berkeley Square that Azra hadn’t visited in a while but that he remembered fondly for their home-made pasta and Tiramisu, and what better place to have some serious contemplation over one’s life than over a nice lunch?

“Azra!” The owner, a merry man, slightly older than Azra, smiled at him brightly, opening his arms in welcome. “Mio amico!”

“Enzo, it is good to see you.” Azra returned the hug. “I was hoping you’d have a table for me.”

“For you? Always.” Enzo stepped back and both men glanced around the restaurant. There were, indeed, a few empty tables near the back. “Take a seat wherever you like, I’ll bring the menu. The special of the day is a truffle risotto that you simply must try.”

“Gracie,” Azra answered absent-mindedly. There were a few empty tables but his eyes were drawn towards something else, a head of red hair done up in a high ponytail, and there, on the other side of that table, sat Anathema, beaming and already waving him over.

“Hello, Mr. Fell,” she greeted him. Azra noted that Crowley was studying the menu with an interest that was usually only reserved for particularly gripping thrillers.

“Hello, dear.” It was also ridiculously hard to keep his eyes from wandering over to the redhead. “How is your thesis coming along?”

Anathema made a vague motion that was something between a shrug, a nod, and a headshake. “Could be worse,” she answered, “Why don’t you join us?”

“Oh. Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude.”

“You wouldn’t. We haven’t even ordered yet. Please.” She gestured towards the empty chair next to Crowley.

“Well…” Azra fiddled with the ring on his pinkie finger. “If you insist.”

There was something in her eyes, a twinkle that Azra couldn’t read. “I do,” she said.

It would be rude to decline now, of course, and Azra could always use the time to think later and, and that was perhaps the deciding factor, he would get to sit next to Crowley for the foreseeable future.

“This is Newt,” Anathema introduced the young man beside her, “My boyfriend.” Newt smiled awkwardly and inclined his head in something like a nod. “And you’ve met Crowley.”

Upon hearing their name, Crowley finally looked up from the menu, eyes hidden behind sunglasses which made it somewhat harder to guess their expression but Azra liked to think that he knew the redhead well enough by know to recognise a genuine smile when he saw it.

“A – Azra,” Crowley greeted him, the little pause barely audible, except Azra was almost certain that Crowley had meant to say something else before thinking better of it.

“It’s good to see you again.” Never mind that the last time they’d spent time together had been less than 24 hours ago.

“You too.” There was a blush making its way steadily up Crowley’s cheeks before they quickly lowered their head once again and raised the menu, while Azra’s heart made a valiant attempt at beating out of his chest. Nonetheless, he sat down, just as Enzo came back with a menu for him, not even blinking when he saw Azra sitting down at an already occupied table.

“Here you go, my friend.”

“Thank you, Enzo.”

They ordered a big platter of anti pasti and a bottle of wine to share, chatting idly about the weather, Anathema’s thesis, and some of Azra’s more remarkable customers.

“What do you do, Newt?” Azra asked after their mains had arrived. The risotto smelled simply divine and he couldn’t wait to try it.

“Computer engineering,” Newt answered, blowing on the spaghetti wrapped around his fork, “Well. Trying to, anyway. I’m not very good.”

“Is it something you want to do? Something you enjoy?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Azra smiled at the fire in Newt’s eyes. There was something beautiful, something wonderous, about people who followed their passions. “Then,” he said, “I think, that’s reason enough to pursue it.”

Next to him, though hidden by the sunglasses, Crowley was watching him. Azra could feel the weight of their eyes – those beautiful eyes – resting on him, familiar and comfortable by now, like a well-worn sweater, hugging every curve of his body. Azra wished it was more than just Crowley’s eyes touching him like that, wished it was their hands, their arms, their everything.

“How long have you had the bookshop, Mr. Fell?” Newt asked, his face as red as the pasta sauce. Come to think of it, his face might have been red because of the pasta sauce.

“Going on 20 years now, I should think,” Azra answered, “It was my uncle’s, you see, and I always dreamed of working there. Then, when he passed away, he left it to me.” He couldn’t help the self-indulgent smile that spread on his lips. “Mind you, I’m not much of a businessman.”

Crowley let out a soft sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, followed by the subtle clearing of their throat. No one except Azra, it seemed, noticed.

They finished their lunch in comfortable silence sprinkled with the occasional pleasant small talk and went on to order dessert. The Tiramisu was as good as Azra remembered and he had to restrain himself from doing all the little sounds that he would usually do, very much aware that he had company which might not appreciate them. Still. It was heavenly.

“Newt and I need to get back to campus,” Anathema announced, “But it was good seeing you again, and I’ll come by the shop soon.”

“Please do, dear. And don’t hesitate to bring Newt here with you.”

They payed, Azra arguing vehemently against Anathema covering his bill as well, and Enzo wished them all a most wonderful day, and then Azra was alone with Crowley, watching as Anathema and Newt walked down the street, holding hands and smiling happily at each other.

Without speaking, both Azra and Crowley turned the other way and started walking back to Soho – it was a silent agreement, but the silence was different. Not satisfied and calm and comfortable as Azra was used to, but jittery, anxious, pregnant with possibilities and filled with things unspoken. And Azra could feel Crowley working up the nerve to put them into words.

“Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” he asked when they stood on the doorstep to the shop, not yet ready to let Crowley go, not when they hadn’t said what they so clearly wanted to –

“D’youwannagooutwi’me?”

Azra blinked. “Pardon?”

“Do – I – You – Would – Oh bloody hell!” Crowley cursed and all but ripped the glasses off, eyes squeezed shut, their fingers pinching the bridge off their nose, “I’m trying to ask you on a date,” they blurted out, opening their eyes and staring at Azra, who blinked once more. His thoughts were running amok in his brain and his heart was skipping a truly unhealthy number of beats, while he tried to process the words, to catch up with what was happening, to take in the sheer rawness of Crowley’s gaze.

“Then ask,” his mouth said, very much without his permission, but it was also smiling which was at least something.

“Nghk. Look,” Crowley said, fidgeting with the glasses, “ _Look_ ,” they repeated, more urgent this time, “I like you, okay? And – and – and I would very much want to take you out to dinner. If you’re interested. It’s cool if you’re not. No problem, really, just thought I’d –”

“Yes,” Azra cut through Crowley’s frantic rambling, “I’m very interested, my dear.” He was smiling in earnest now, barely able to contain the delight that was taking over his heart. “Should we say tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley repeated, looking slightly dumbfounded, “Right. Yeah. ‘Course.”

“If you’re otherwise occupied, we can of course –”

Crowley shook their head. “No. No. Not occupied. Tomorrow sounds great.”

“Excellent. How about 7?” Crowley nodded, lips apart and eyes slightly glazed over. “I’m looking forward to it.” It was a small miracle that Azra’s voice sounded as steady as it did, that his plump, round hands didn’t shake violently as he reached out to take Crowley’s, that he didn’t spontaneously combust from happiness as his lips pressed a gentle kiss to those sharp knuckles.

Crowley, for their part, looked like they were about to faint any second now, and it hit Azra that, somewhere along the line of the past few weeks, he had already lost his heart to this beautiful, brilliant creature before his eyes.

* * *

Sitting alone in his bookshop, long after Crowley had left, the euphoria slowly ebbed off to nothing more than a vague shadow and an ever-growing sensation of cold dread.

He was going on a date with Crowley.

_He_.

On a _date_.

With _Crowley_.

Azra barely remembered the last time he’d been on a date. It might have been back in uni, with that one fellow from Boston – or was it New York? – he’d been American at any rate. Or maybe Canadian. He’d been a business or law student. Perhaps, philosophy. Point is, it had been a very long time ago, and that particular date hadn’t even ended well, if memory served right. How was he supposed to go out with Crowley, then? Surely, they had plenty offers and admirers and experience, looking the way they did.

_So, why me?_

Next to him, a cup of cocoa grew steadily colder, but Azra didn’t think he could stomach it, at the moment. There were more pressing matters. What did one wear on a date? All he had were his stuffy, slightly outdated clothes which he loved but which, he was also aware, were not exactly in fashion. And how did one behave? Was he supposed to hold open doors for Crowley and pull back the chair for them? Or was that not done anymore? Should he let Crowley do those things for him? And _then_ , of course, was the question of what came after. A question which Azra didn’t even dare think about right this second.

Azra’s body rose from the armchair and moved towards the old telephone by the desk, while his mind lagged behind and only caught up when he’d already dialed the number, sending him into another fit of panic.

_Doot._

He could still hang up.

_Doot._

He should hang up.

_Doot._

What would he even –

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Oh.” Azra jumped slightly at the voice. “Hello, Madame Tracy. I – It’s me, Azra Fell, from the bookshop?”

“ _My word, Mr. Fell, I haven’t heard from you in months. I hope you’re doing well?_ ”

“Well enough,” Azra answered, “However, I find myself in need of some advice.”

Oh bother, why did he have to call her?

“ _Well ,don’t keep me waiting, Mr. Fell_.”

So Azra explained, and Azra listened, and Azra found that, whatever happened, it could never be worse than whatever was happening between Madam Tracy and Mr. Shadwell, which was, all things considered, very reassuring, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley was, to put it nicely, in a bit of a tizzy. Less nicely put, one might also say that he had gone off the deep end, right round the bent, and lost all his marbles in the process.

Anyway.

The floor of his room was covered in varying shades of black as the contents of his wardrobe had found themselves temporarily evicted for the purpose of finding adequate clothing for a date that was in exactly 10 hours, 18 minutes and 44 seconds.

Perhaps it was a slightly bigger tizzy.

_Shitshitshitshitshit!_

Asking out Azra had seemed like a good idea at the time. Or at least not like a horrible idea. Now, however? Well…hindsight and all that. The point was…the point _was_ , Crowley was regretting every decision she’d ever made in her life that let them to this moment, was the point.

_What the hell was I thinking?_

Not only was Azra ridiculously gorgeous, clever, and very much out of Crowley’s league, he was probably also under the impression that Crowley knew what she was doing. Which they didn’t.

The clothes on the floor bore witness as Crowley changed in and out of various trousers, skirts, shirts, and dresses, growing more desperate as the no-pile grew larger, the maybe-pile grew wider, and the yes-pile remained purely hypothetical.

9 hours, 30 minutes, 5 seconds.

Out in the kitchen, Crowley could hear Anathema humming to herself as she made breakfast and for one fleeting moment they considered asking for her help before discarding the thought just as quickly – while Anathema would possibly be able to calm him down a bit, she’d also tease him and ask questions and generally be Unhelpful, and Crowley just couldn’t deal with that. Not right now.

The yes-pile was still non-existent, forcing her to go through the maybe-pile once again and – _there_! Narrowing her eyes, Crowley crouched down and picked up a technically-black-but-actually-see-through mesh shirt, a remnant of her younger years that had still been spent in the occasional club but that hadn’t seen any use in a while. In fact, she’d completely forgotten about it. Smiling to herself, Crowley put the shirt onto the bed and pulled out what else they would need to complete the outfit. It would do. Hopefully.

“Crowley?”

Crowley jumped at Anathema’s voice through the door, followed by a knock.

“What?”

“Just checking if you’re awake,” Anathema said, “I’m making breakfast, you want any?”

“Out in a sec.”

Crowley listened to Anathema’s retreating footsteps and dared a glance at the time – almost ten. They would, of course, still need to shower and do their hair, nails, and make-up.

_It’s gonna be fine_ , they told themselves, _it’s all gonna be just fine_.

* * *

Nothing was fine. There were merely 4 hours left until the date and Crowley’s hair was in total disarray, the make-up still had to be done, the nail polish was still drying, and Anathema had started to suspect that something was different. The latter, somehow, turned out to be the worst.

“You have a date,” Anathema said, standing in the door to Crowley’s room, which she’d opened without even knocking. To Crowley’s credit, he barely even flinched, let alone tried to cover up their lack of clothing with the towel which lay discarded on the floor. Not that there was anything that Anathema hadn’t seen before.

Still.

“Get out.”

“You have a date.”

“Out.”

“You have a date.”

Crowley let out a groan. “Are you just going to repeat that until I say yes?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“So _this_ wouldn’t happen,” she muttered to herself, turning their back to Anathema and considering, once again, their make-up choices, “Now. Out”

“Who is it?” Anathema pressed on, very much still there.

“’m not telling you.”

“But it’s the same guy you were moping about the other day, right?” Anathema asked, ignoring Crowley’s silent protests, “The one that’s ‘not like me’?”

Sighing deeply, Crowley decided that it might be easier to just give in and accept her fate. “Urgh. Fine. If you’re not gonna leave,” she told Anathema, “At least help me decide what to do with all this.” She made a vague gesture towards her head.

“What are you wearing?”

Another gesture towards the bed where the clothes were all laid out and waiting to be worn.

“Hmm.” Anathema stepped next to Crowley and looked down at the various tubes and tubs strewn over the pillow on the bed. “This one,” she decided, picking up a lipstick of deep crimson, “And the silver eyeshadow. Some black eyeliner and mascara and viola.”

Without saying a word, Crowley started to get dressed, enjoying the feeling of the smooth fabrics on their skin.

“Do my hair,” they demanded once clothes and make-up were done.

“Yes, your highness.”

“Shut up.”

He had 3 hours left.

* * *

The end result was…more than acceptable…if Crowley said so himself.

The mesh shirt clung to his torso like a second skin, underneath a simple, black blazer which, incidentally, also hid the pair of black suspenders holding up his skirt – high-waisted with silky layers of black and silver, going down to his knees. Silver snakes coiled themselves around his neck and wrists. The same kind as could be found on his purse. Anathema had bound his hair into an artful, loose braid, the vibrant red mirroring the shade of his lipstick and nails perfectly, his pale eyes emphasised by the dark lines, and a hint of his silvery-glittery eyeshadow.

“Oh!” Azra was staring at him, eyes wide and lips apart, while Crowley anxiously awaited his judgement. “Oh my! You look…you look stunning, my dear.”

The tectonic plates of Crowley’s very being shifted, sending ripples through his entire body. “Nghk.” Speaking was incredibly hard, he found. “Ssso do you, angel.”

Azra blushed, a delicious red rising up his cheeks, as he cast down his eyes. He was beautiful. His usual set of cream and beige slacks and waistcoat had been replaced by a baby blue button-down underneath a soft-looking white sweater and brown trousers, his white gold hair curled into all direction between heaven and hell, and his smile was radiant as the sun itself.

“You’re perfect.” Crowley’s eyes grew wide even as he spoke the words, unable to take them back now, helplessly watching as they reached Azra’s ears which appeared to be burning off his head, if their colour was anything to go by.

“Oh, stop,” the blond muttered, adjusting his collar, “May I ask what you have planned, or is that a surprise?”

Crowley would have very much liked to stay on the subject of Azra’s gorgeousness, except for how he really also didn’t and was somehow glad for the change.

“Indian,” he said, hoping that his voice sounded less shaky than he felt, “You mentioned this place in Covent Garden the other day and I thought…” _It could make you happy. It could make you smile. I’d take you anywhere if it just made you smile_.

“That sounds positively delightful.” Azra stepped outside and held out his arm for Crowley to take, “Shall we?”

Choking on his own tongue, Crowley staggered slightly as he accepted the offered arm, cursing himself for his choice of footwear. High heels, as it were, really didn’t agree with legs as shaky as his were, at the moment.

* * *

The restaurant was nice. A hidden, little thing with ivy ranking up the front of the old stone arch leading to the entrance. _Quaint_. Inside, various candles and chandeliers gave off a warm, red glow, and the soft-cushioned benches welcomed anyone to sink into them and stay for however long one wished, to wine and dine and soak up the atmosphere.

That’s what they did, at any rate.

Crowley had done his research, of course, looking at the menu before he’d even called about the table, and at what people said about it. After all, it wouldn’t do to embarrass himself because he couldn’t handle his spices. Unlike Azra, it seemed.

“The pork Vindaloo, please”, the blond said to the waitress after complimenting her on the, admittedly, nice tattoo on her forearm, and before enrolling her into some pleasant small talk.

Perhaps, Crowley thought, he should have felt put-out, after all it was him who was on a date with the most beautiful man in whole London right now, _him_ , not the twenty-something woman who was smiling at Azra as if he’d just made her day which, come to think of it, he may have very well done. But all Crowley felt, watching the conversation play out, was a soft kind of warmth spreading out from his heart to the tips of his fingers, because _this_ , being kind and bringing people joy, was what Azra did, _this_ was why Crowley couldn’t stay away from him in the first place.

“This is really rather lovely,” Azra commented once the waitress, Fiona, had left, “Thank you, my dear, for taking me here.”

The heat was also spreading over Crowley’s face and some part of him wished he’d brought his sunglasses, while the other hoped it wouldn’t be too obvious in the already red lighting of the room.

“’Course, angel,” he managed to choke out.

“I do like it when you call me that,” Azra said, smiling again, so bright, so pure, so bloody earnest, and perhaps, Crowley thought, perhaps this had all been a terrible idea because at this rate he’d be a puddle of goo on the floor before the night was over.

“Good. ‘s good. That you like it.” Some part of Crowley wondered when he’d turned into a bumbling idiot who stumbled over his own words when he could have sworn that he’d been suave once, smooth. Another part, the one that carried Anathema’s face and spoke with her voice, pointed out that that had always been him. Not that Azra seemed to particularly mind his word-vomit, at least he didn’t look he he did. In fact, the blue eyes watching Crowley were turning incredibly soft now, melting Crowley a little bit closer to that puddle.

It was a blessing when Fiona brought their food.

One might think, in fact, one might even go as far as to expect, that after spending almost every day together for the last few weeks, that they would have run out of conversation topics, and yet. Azra talked about his books and even got Crowley to admit that he had listened to some of them. They talked about movies and sent Crowley into a silent fit of outrage when he learned that Azra had never watched a single Bond film. They talked about the shop, and the little bakery down the road, about God and the universe at large.

The food must have been good because before Crowley knew it, his plate was empty, even if he barely remembered tasting anything of it. For all he knew, they could have served him live maggots and he’d have happily accepted it, too focused on Azra to really pay attention. The blond, of course, had paid attention. Crowley had listened to his little hums and appreciative moans, had watched him close his eyes in delight, and saw the happy smile now as Azra dapped the corners of his mouth for non-existent stains.

“That was scrumptious,” he said and lowered the cloth in his hand.

“Hmm.” Crowley nodded, forcing himself to dial down the staring a notch or two. “Would you like dessert?”

“Oh! Why, I…I couldn’t possibly say no to such an offer, could I?”

Crowley allowed a lazy grin to take over his face. “You really couldn’t.”

Inwardly, he was fistbumping himself for actually stringing three words together in an actually coherent manner and without making a fool of himself – _Take that, Anathema_.

His victory was, however, all but forgotten when Azra took the first bite of his Gulab Jamum and then went on to _feed Crowley the next one, using his fingers._

Crowley’s brain might or might not have shirt-circuited shortly after.


	6. Chapter 6

The air was warm and pleasant when they left the restaurant – Crowley’s heels click-clacked against the pavement, groups of friends passed them, their voices filled with laughter, and the music from a nearby pub sounded out onto the streets. Azra wished he could stop time, wished he could freeze this very moment and stay in it forever, wished he could hold onto the bubbling happiness in his chest whenever his hand grazed Crowley’s on their way back to Soho. But he couldn’t. Time ticked on, mercilessly and against Azra’s will. They passed the Ivy and crossed the big streets into the familiarity of home and the closer they got, the slower Azra walked, hoping to stretch out the moments, trying to evade the inevitable. Their hands touched once more and maybe he could…maybe…

_But no._

“Crowley?”

_Or yes?_

“Hmm?”

_It really wouldn’t take much._

“I was wondering,” Azra said through the constant will-I-won’t-I of his brain, “That is – I’ve been meaning to ask for quite some time now, actually, ‘though I never quite seemed to be able to find the appropriate time and, to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not certain this is it either, however, I really feel like I need to, no like I should, ask –” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “My dear, if you don’t mind terribly, could you tell me your preferred pronouns?”

Crowley was silent for a long moment, the only sounds around them, the cacophony of the city, then – “People usually don’t ask that,” they muttered, “They just…assume.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much better in that department.”

Crowley chuckled, a lovely, rich melody that made Azra’s heart skip a beat. “Assume away, angel,” they said, “Seriously. I don’t care. Use whatever pronouns you want, switch ‘em up, keep people on their toes, y’know? I don’t know what’s going on half the time myself, so why should anyone else.”

“So you don’t have a – a preferred set?”

“Nah. Keeps changing anyway. Right now, ‘m mostly male, I think.”

Azra chanced a glance at his companion, his friend, his date – he took in the sharp line of their jaw and the barely-there stubble on their cheeks and the eyes that reminded him of stars, and this time when he reached out to take Crowley’s hand into his, he didn’t hesitate.

“Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For telling me. For trusting me with this part of yourself. For treating me to the loveliest evening.”

Crowley’s hand twitched slightly in Azra’s hold, before squeezing gently.

“Right,” the redhead said, sounding choked, “Right. ‘Course. No problem.”

Feeling brave, Azra returned Crowley’s squeeze and asked, “How would you feel about going to the theatre with me next week? They’re showing Much Ado.”

“Are –” Crowley began but interrupted themselves, clearing their throat, “Are you – are you asking me on a second date?”

Azra smiled. “I rather think I am.”

“Okay. Cool. Cool. Yes. Theatre.”

They were nearing the bookshop now, only a few more steps and they’d have reached the door.

“I can’t wait,” Azra told Crowley, just as they slowed down and came to halt. The light of the streetlamps made Crowley’s eyeshadow sparkle like the firmament on a clear night in the countryside. “Good night, Crowley.”

“G’night, angel.”

* * *

They still saw each other most days in the week leading up to their second date. Crowley would drop in at all hours, bringing coffee or pastries or wine or, on one particular occasion, a sleeping mask to nap on the sofa since Anathema and Newt had, apparently, declared the living room fair game for athletic activities of the kind that should have been reserved for the bedroom. It was possibly the happiest Azra had ever been.

And yet.

It was early afternoon on the day before their date and Crowley had just left, muttering something about work under their breath and, well…that was kind of the thing. Azra was fairly sure tax accountants did not start their working day at 5 in the afternoon. Crowley never spoke of their job, no anecdotes, no complaints about annoying co-workers, no frustration about malfunctioning software or subpar office coffee, and…it wasn’t that it bothered Azra, exactly, that would be incorrect, but rather that it made him wonder if Crowley had really been all that truthful about their employment. Not that that would have been a problem. He just wondered. It was a minor detail, really, in the grand scheme of things. It didn’t matter. Even if Azra had to pointedly ignore the nasty sounding voice in the back of his head, the one that reminded him of Gabriel, telling him that it was all too good to be true, that Crowley was just using him for their own ends. What, exactly, those ends were supposed to be, the voice remained notably quiet on. And anyway, what business was it of his how Crowley earned his living? They were friends. They had been on one date. If Crowley felt like telling Azra, they would…Wouldn’t they?

“You are being unreasonable, old chap,” he told himself, walking into the kitchen to make a cup of cocoa, “There is nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

_I am allowed to be happy…_

* * *

The next evening came sooner than anticipated. One moment, he was still in the shop, fending for his books while his tea grew cold in the backroom, and the next he was dressed in a nice, fairly new, ivory suit, walking to the theatre with Crowley who looked as dashing as ever in their own suit of charcoal. Azra didn’t think his – Azra didn’t think Crowley even owned anything that wasn’t at the very least grey, which somehow made him wish to see them in an all white outfit at least once, if only for the fun of it.

The show was great.

Azra had always had a soft for Shakespeare and Much Ado was, in his opinion, one of his best, and even Crowley, as the self-proclaimed critic of all literature they were, laughed along with the audience at the Officer’s antics and Benedick’s and Beatrice’s ridiculousness. It was easier this time, too, being together in such a way. They were sitting side by side, their hands joined between the seats and shared wine during the intermission, discussing the play, leaving even less space between each other in the second half, with Crowley’s arm around Azra’s shoulders. It was, as far as that was even possible, an even better date than the first one.

On their way back, they held hands, their fingers entwined like two pieces of a puzzle, laughing at their own wine-drunken silliness.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Azra asked just before they had reached Crowley’s apartment block, “We could have dinner.”

For a moment, Crowley beamed at him, their eyes glowing with enthusiasm, before a kind of darkness washed over the pristine, sharp features.

“I can’t,” say said regretfully, “Not tomorrow night. Work.”

Gab – the voice in the back of Azra’s head made a point of reminding him that tomorrow would be a Saturday – surely, no tax accountant would have to work on a Saturday night?

“Oh, that’s no problem,” he said, trying to drown out the voice, "No problem at all.”

“We – we – we – we could have breakfast,” Crowley said, stumbling over their words in their haste to get them out, “I can do breakfast. A picnic. A breakfast picnic. Picnicy breakfast.”

Despite the nagging worry, Azra smiled at the suggestion. “That would be wonderful.”

“’s a date, then. 10-ish? I’ll bring the food.”

They had reached Crowley’s home, both stopping in front of the building and looking up at the door.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Azra said, both hoping and dreading that Crowley could hear the longing in his voice.

“Me too.” Crowley’s voice was rough and barely more than a whisper. A few strands of auburn hair had gotten loose from the messy bun they’d been bound into and were now playing around Crowley’s face, framing it and making Azra’s fingers itch with the need to touch them. Before he could talk himself or his hand out it, Azra was reaching out slowly, giving Crowley plenty of time to stop him, and, when they didn’t, tucked the strands back behind their ear.

“May I kiss you good-night?”

Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed and their eyes went wide but they nodded, a jerky, hasty movement that dislodged the hair from behind their ear once more. Azra smiled and tentatively stepped closer, bringing them chest to chest, his hand resting on Crowley’s cheek. It was Crowley who leaned in first, at least Azra was fairly certain it was, brushing their lips together in the gentlest way imaginable, the shadow of a kiss and yet so much more. A promise of possibility.

* * *

True to English fashion, after days of draught and heat the weekend was heralded with low hanging, dark clouds that did not look particularly welcoming to take a stroll through the park, let alone a picnic. It was also Gabriel’s birthday, as Azra’s calendar had reminded him upon waking up.

“ _Gabriel Fell_ ,” the voice of his brother sounded through the line, strong and booming.

“Ah, yes, Gabriel. Hello. I called to wish you a happy birthday.”

“ _Azra. Thank you_.” He did not sound thankful at all, Azra noticed. Somewhere in the background, he could hear muffled voices and the rhythmical clinking of cutlery against plates.

“I hope you’re doing well?”

“ _Yes, yes, very well. How are you, brother?_ ”

“Very well,” Azra answered, watching with an increasingly heavy heart as the first drops of rain started falling outside his windows.

“ _Good. Listen, I was going to call today, anyway. I need you to take Adam, come Monday_.”

Azra blinked. “You – you do?” Maybe he’d misheard.

“ _I do_ ,” Gabriel confirmed, “ _Michelle has been called to a meeting in New York and I simply cannot take time off work. I’m sure you understand_.”

_Not really_ , Azra wanted to say.

“Of course,” he replied.

“ _Excellent. Well, I’ll drop him off first ting on Monday before work, any expenses will, of course, be covered by me_.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Azra found himself saying, “But thank you.”

“ _Very well. See you on Monday_.”

“See you on Monday.”

Azra was left reeling, receiver still in hand long after his brother had ended the call. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, that Gabriel put him on babysitting duty without as much as a by your leave. He should, in fact, probably be grateful that he’d gotten a two days notice. Gabriel’s son would be about ten now. Azra hadn’t actually seen his nephew in quite a while, he was practically a complete stranger to the boy!

_Oh, dear…_

Outside the rain was falling heavier now, people rushing by with ducked heads, trying to find shelter, and Azra quickly turned the sign on his door to ‘closed’. It certainly wouldn’t do to turn this already bad day into something worse.

At 10 o’clock on the dot, there was a knock on the door and a dripping Crowley in front of it. A dripping Crowley who was holding – _a wicker basket?_

“Hi, angel,” they greeted him as soon as Azra had opened the door, “For the record, this –” they raised the basket “—is Anathema’s. I’m just borrowing it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Nah. But you were thinking it.” Crowley’s long, wet hair was curling endearingly at the ends and their black shirt was clinging to their torso, leaving nothing to the imagination. “So,” they said, stepping inside, “Weather’s a bit shite. But I thought, you know…we could still…” they trailed off, raising the basket once more, and Azra smiled.

“Do you know, I found the loveliest blanket in the back of my wardrobe which will work just perfectly.” This was true. He’d found the blanket while searching for picnic appropriate equipment between all his clutter. As far as Azra remembered it had been his uncle’s. “Let me just get you a towel and perhaps some dry clothes.”

“Thanks.”

Azra’s breath hitched when he saw Crowley standing inbetween the bookshelves, dressed in his clothes. Their slim frame was barely visible underneath the shirt Azra had given them, and the pair of pyjama bottoms kept sliding down their hips. They looked ridiculous. And yet…

“Tartan.” Crowley was staring at Azra or, more specifically, at the blanket Azra was currently sitting on. “It’s tartan.”

“Yes it is, my dear.”

He could see a great deal of thoughts passing over Crowley’s face, from sheer horror, over slight disgust, to uncontained amusement, before settling on something incredibly soft and fond and adoring.

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley muttered and sat down, the basket between them.

There were croissants and pain au chocolats, strawberries and grapes and apples, there were sandwiches, muffins, and pancakes, and even just looking at the feast before him, made Azra’s mouth water.

“Wasn’t sure what to bring, so…” Crowley made a vague gesture with their hand which Azra supposed was trying to convey something along the lines of ‘I just brought everything’.

“It looks absolutely divine, my dear, thank you.”

It tasted even better. Azra savoured every bite of the pastries and delighted in feeding Crowley the strawberries and hummed appreciatively when Crowley returned the favour with bite-sized slices of apple. It didn’t matter that outside a storm was brewing, here in the warmth and comfort of the shop, between a forest of books, sitting on a tartan blanket with classical music coming from the old gramophone in the corner.

It was, despite the odds, a perfect date.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley was in heaven.

They had finished the food quite a while ago and Crowley had, with only minimal stuttering, asked Azra to read for them. Head pillowed on beautifully soft thighs, fingers running steadily through their hair, and Azra’s voice raising and sinking like the tide with the flow of the words, Crowley had closed their eyes and submitted to the pure, all-encompassing bliss washing over them, welcoming it, wishing they could hold onto it.

It took Crowley a moment to realise that the voice was gone and that the fingers were no longer carding through their hair.

“Why d’you stop?” they muttered, shifting slightly and opening a single eye to peer up at Azra who was regarding them with a steady gaze of devotion and awe that made Crowley squirm.

“You are truly beautiful.”

“Nghk.” Crowley could feel the heat rising in their cheeks and quickly turned their head to press their face against Azra’s thigh. “No’s much’s you.”

Azra’s hand started moving again, gently and slowly in steady movements. “You flatter me,” he said, “But I’m serious.”

“So’m I.” It was almost as if Azra didn’t believe Crowley, which just wouldn’t do. Deciding to ignore the blush, Crowley sat up and made sure to meet Azra’s eyes before saying, “You’re gorgeous, angel.”

The angel smiled. “May I kiss you, my dear?”

“Please.”

Kissing Azra was something Crowley had never quite thought possible and last night, feeling those plush lips against their own for the first time, had been a dream come true. It had been chaste and careful, and it still was, but there was something else bubbling underneath, something like an urgency, a longing, that made the air between and around them vibrate. Azra’s mouth opened just so and Crowley could feel the tip of a tongue grazing their own lips, the perfectly round, plump hands tangled in their hair tightened ever so slightly, and Azra let out a humming noise, and Crowley – Crowley just couldn’t.

Making sure not to move too hastily, they pulled back, forcing themselves to meet Azra’s gaze which looked a little dazed and a lot concerned.

“Tea,” Crowley blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “D’you want tea? I want tea.”

They really didn’t, but it was too late now. Azra was already smiling again, the concern slowly ebbing from their eyes. “Tea would be lovely,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”

As Azra retreated into the kitchen, presumably to put the kettle on, Crowley was left to discreetly kick their own arse.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

It had all been going so well. They’d enjoyed themselves! And then Crowley had to go and muck it all up by panicking. Overreacting. Crowley didn’t actually believe that Azra would have tried to cross the line between lazy snogging and the _other stuff_ , not like that, not without extensive talk about boundaries first…and yet. There had been something there that Crowley couldn’t name but that had been on the wrong side of too much. They were perfectly happy to deal with the _other stuff_ for work, no problem, but this – this was different. Crowley just hoped that Azra would understand.

Speaking of which.

“Here you go, my dear.” A steaming cup of tea was handed to Crowley, milky and sweet, just the way they liked it, and Azra’s smile to go with it.

“Thanks, angel.” It was still too hot to drink, of course, but that didn’t stop Crowley from trying. “I need to go soon. Get ready for work.”

“Of course,” Azra replied, sounding understanding and pleasant as ever, but something was off. Crowley distantly remembered telling Azra they were a tax accountant, their go-to excuse whenever someone asked after their job, because they had yet to meet anyone who was willing to talk about taxes unless they absolutely had to. They also distantly remembered that it was a Saturday afternoon.

_Bollocks._

There was nothing to be done about that now, but Crowley could feel another, much less discreet, arse-kicking coming on once they’d gotten back home

“I’ll – I’ll drop in this week,” Crowley said for now, “We could…I don’t know…get lunch.” _I could explain why I got weird_ , they added silently.

Azra’s face fell. “I – I’m afraid I will have my nephew staying with me for a few days,” he answered.

“Your nephew?” Crowley quickly sifted through all the memories of their conversations with Azra but came up blank when trying to remember the mention of any family.

“Yes. My brother he – we’re not very close, you see, but he asked me to take the boy for a bit.”

Swallowing the rising disappointment, Crowley smirked. “Uncle Azra, huh?”

“Do be quiet,” Azra said, though despite the words, his voice was kind, “I’m actually quite worried. I haven’t seen Adam in a while and I don’t have any experience when it comes to children.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

Crowley nodded. “Was a babysitter for a few years.” They shrugged, trying to play it off as no big deal because it _wasn’t_. They were just mentioning it because the subject had happened to come up. “You’ll be fine, angel,” They added quickly before any other words would try to come out.

“You believe so?”

“Yes.” It was true. Azra was a good person – a Good person – and any kid would probably be lucky to have him as their uncle.

“Thank you, dear.” That damn smile was back again, bright and blinding and beautiful and so bloody genuine. God, how Crowley loved that smile.

“I better go.” _Before I do something stupid like ask if I can stay_.

“Of course. Take care, my dear.”

* * *

The air at Tracy’s was thick with heavy silence, and the usually chipper woman wore a grave expression on her face.

“What happened?” Crowley asked, closing the door behind them.

“It’s Mary,” Tracy answered, sounding both devastated and outraged “She’s been arrested. Picked her up right from the street. They’re going to take little Josh away from her now. Animals!”

Crowley felt a bit like a bucked of ice-cold water had been empties over their head. They knew Mary. And Josh was just a kid.

“Where?”

“Camden. I’m telling you, those coppers are out for blood lately. First Eva, then Noah, now this. What’s next? Are they going to kick in my door and arrest me?”

“No, they won’t,” Anathema protested strongly, “We won’t let them.”

“No one’s coming for us,” Crowley added, stepping closer to Tracy to lay a hand on her shoulder “We’re always careful. We learned from the best, remember?”

That, at least, got Tracy to smile, and she patted Crowley’s hand, before turning towards Anathema. “You have a client in half an hour, dear,” she reminded her, “And Crowley, remember that new man that is coming by later – Sandalphon, I believe.”

“I know.”

The thing about Tracy was that she was a bit of a guardian angel – if guardian angels were ex-whores and part-time fake-psychics. She was great, was the point. Tracy had made it her job to take every young man, women, and those who knew better, walking the streets of London in search of customers under her wing and protect them as much as she could. If there was a raid or arrest or attack, she was usually the first to know about it. And if anyone needed a place to stay or work, they could count on her to give it to them.

Crowley was very aware that they would have ended up in jail or dead in a ditch a long time ago, if it wasn’t for Tracy.

Crowley’s new client was one of the slick ones, the kind that got off more on the power than the actual sex, and Crowley could tell that they wouldn’t like him very much. That, in and of itself, wasn’t a problem. There were loads of people just like him and Crowley knew how to deal with them. But there was something else, too, something that rubbed Crowley the wrong way, no pun intended. They had always been a firm believer in following your gut, since you generally needed that to stay alive and right now, their gut was telling them that this would not be an easy job, a feeling which was very much confirmed by Sandalphon’s next words while he was eyeing the condoms on the bedside table.

“We won’t be needing those.”

Crowley supressed a sigh. “Yes, we will,” they answered, “Nothing will happen without a condom. That’s the rule.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then you’re welcome to leave.”

Sandalphon smiled cruelly, his golden dental fillings flashing in the lights. "Or I will let the police know about the little brothel you’re running here.”

Blackmail…classic.

Crowley did their best to not react in any way, which was, admittedly, not easy, but they also liked to think that they weren’t too terrible in a crisis. Which this wasn’t, anyway.

“Leave.”

There was a system in place for situation such as this one – Crowley hadn’t actually needed to use it in years but, well…Needs must and all that. Crowley pulled the string of the bedside table lamp which would set off the alarm. In the time it took for Shadwell to reach the bedroom door, Sandalphon could do little more than stare in confusion.

“What?” The gruffy, old man asked.

“Please escort this gentleman outside, Mr. Shadwell,” Crowley said, making sure their voice sounded as sugary-sweet as possible.

Grumbling under his breath, Shadwell did just that, stepping close into Sandalphon’s space and gesturing towards the door. The message was clear and Sandalphon seemed to receive and understand it without complaints, leaving first the bedroom, then the flat, and the house altogether, while Crowley might or might not have been lowkey panicking.

“What happened?” Tracy asked when Crowley joined her in the kitchen. The kettle was already boiling.

“I think he’s gonna report us,” Crowley answered, “Best lie low for a bit.”

“I’ll get the word out,” Tracy replied, pouring hot water into two mugs, “But first,” she added, “Tea.”

* * *

Turns out, it was near impossible to charge someone with brothel keeping if there was no actual evidence and Tracy had, apparently, even managed to squeeze an official apology out of the officers after they’d searched the flat, “for the inconvenience”. Crowley bloody adored that woman.

Of course, with their safe space temporarily compromised, and with the police keeping an even closer eye on everything than usually, both Crowley and Anathema found themselves struggling. There was no way they’d bring clients to their flat, and working the streets was too much of a risk. It wasn’t a problem just yet, but it could be one very quickly very soon, and the worst part was that Crowley had no idea how to fix it.

And then there was Azra.

Crowley had stopped by the bookshop once without actually going inside, but she’d seen the blond through the window together with what Crowley assumed was his nephew, a gangly boy with dark hair who had been staring at his phone, looking incredibly bored. She missed Azra. Missed talking to him, missed his smile and his fussiness and the way he made her heart all skippy. But Azra hadn’t said anything about Crowley coming over and she didn’t want to impose and anyway, they’d barely been on three dates and Crowley really wasn’t sure what the protocol was here…maybe she should ask Anathema. The poor girl probably had a bloody tongue by now from all the biting she’d had to do.

“How’s Newt?” Crowley asked one morning over his coffee.

Across the table, Anathema paused, a spoon of porridge halfway up to her mouth which started slowly dripping back into the bowl as she blinked at Crowley.

“Newt’s fine.” _Drip. Drip. Drip_. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

There was a suspicious look in her eyes but Anathema resumed eating her soggy oats drenched in too much honey and let the silence stretch out between them.

“How long’s it been now?” Crowley asked, unable to keep his mouth shut, and once again, Anathema froze.

_Drip._

“A few weeks. Why?”

“No reason.”

Crowley couldn’t stand porridge, couldn’t fathom how people could possibly eat it out of their own free will. It reminded him too much of being sick and bound to his bed and his mum feeding him spoon after spoon of the atrociously bland stuff. It was like soup. Crowley hated soup.

“How many dates have you had?”

With a loud clutter and a sickening splash, Anathema dropped her spoon into the bowl and fixed Crowley with her most unforgiving glare that he definitely couldn’t deal with at 8 in the morning.

“Is this about your mysterious boyfriend?” she asked, ignoring Crowley’s feeble protests how he _isn’t my boyfriend, barely know him, really, and_ – “Because if it is, you should just ask the question you want an answer to.”

For a very long moment that probably lasted only a second but felt like two eternities went by, they merely stared at each other, and then Crowley folded like a card house in a tornado and the words started stumbling out of his mouth – “We’ve been on three dates and I really like him and I think he likes me too but I’m not sure, but anyway we haven’t seen each other in a few days ‘cause he’s got his nephew staying with him and I don’t know if I should just stroll in there or if it’s better to stay away and I haven’t told him of my job yet, or that I’m ace and I’m worried that he’ll take it the wrong way or leave or get angry or be disgusted, even though I don’t think he will ‘cause he’s a good fucking person and I don’t know what to do.”

Anathema blinked. Once. Twice.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she began slowly, “That your guy will find out either way if you keep dating and if he can’t deal with it now, he probably won’t be able to deal with it down the line and then, maybe, he’s just not the guy for you?”

“That – that – that –” Crowley sputtered, “That’s not helpful!”

Anathema sighed and picked up he spoon again even though the porridge had probably gone cold by now, if the disgusted and affronted look on Anathema’s face was anything to go by but she still kept eating, slowly and methodically, spoon after spoon, leaving Crowley hanging on the edge of his seat.

“Talk to him,” she said after she’d finished, standing up and dumping the bowl into the sink, “I’m going out to see Newt.”

And that, as they say, was that.


	8. Chapter 8

Looking after his nephew was a bit of a disaster, if Azra was being honest. It wasn’t Adam’s fault. Probably. More the result of an unfortunate combination of Azra’s lack of knowledge about pre-pubescent boys, and Gabriel’s and Michelle’s absent parenting strategy. In the name of honesty, Azra would also have to say that he couldn’t wait for his brother to return and take Adam with him so he could go back to his quiet, boring life in his quiet, boring bookshop.

And Crowley.

It had almost been a week since they’d last seen each other, decidedly too long in Azra’s books, but it wasn’t like he could just ask Crowley to come over. Not with Adam around, anyway.

He had taken the boy to the cinema the previous night, some action movie with a lot of boom and unrealistic stunts, and somehow Adam had managed to drag Azra into a McDonald’s every day since Monday. It was a bit of a disgrace.

“Uncle Azra?” Adam asked now, inbetween chewing his toast, “Can I meet up with the Them today? Maybe stay the night at Pepper’s?”

Now, normally, Azra’s answer would have been something along the lines of “let me ask your father first if that’s okay,” however, considering the circumstances and the prospect of a whole day to himself…well.

“Let me ask their parents first, but I don’t see why not.”

Adam shrugged. “A’right.” He looked pleased, though, as he finished his breakfast and full-on excited when Azra got off the phone with Adam’s friends’ parents and announced that, yes, he could come over and stay at Pepper’s until tomorrow.

Azra also felt excited.

_Hello Crowley,_

He typed on his phone, painstakingly searching for one letter at a time.

_This is Azra. Adam is visiting his friend and will spent the night. Would you be amendable to lunch or perhaps dinner? Either would be fine._

Azra carefully read and re-read the message before hitting send, expecting that it would probably take a while for Crowley to an –

_How bout both?_

_Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to put you out._

_Very sure angel. Meet you at 12?_

Azra smiled.

_That sounds delightful, my dear._

By the time the clock struck 12, Azra had changed his clothes three times only to stick with his normal attire, made five cups of tea which he had then abandoned to grow cold, and picked up no less than eight books only to decide that he wasn’t in the mood for reading.

It was a bit ridiculous, really. It wasn’t as if this was their first date, after all, and yet somehow it felt different since they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a week.

When Crowley walked through the door into the bookshop, however, the world stopped. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Azra’s lungs to forget how to breathe and his heart to start dancing the Gavotte in his chest and –

_Oh._

“Hi, angel, how’re ya doing? Brought you something.”

“Oh.”

“Just. Y’know. Saw ‘em on the way. Thought of you. Thought you might like ‘em.”

Azra stared from Crowley’s face, to the bouquet of flowers in their hand, back to their face, wishing they would do away with those ridiculous sunglasses.

“They’re magnificent, my dear.” _You’re magnificent_. They were, the flowers that was, but Crowley, too, of course. Small petals forming perfectly round heads of bright red and cream white. Like Crowley’s hair. Like his hair. “What are they?”

“Nghk. Er. Chrysanthemums.”

“Beautiful,” Azra said, still looking at Crowley, and he wasn’t even sure himself which he meant, “I am so glad to see you.”

Something in Crowley’s features softened and Azra thought he heard whispered “me too”, before Crowley spoke up – “So. Lunch?”

“Yes. Yes of course. Let me just –” Azra trailed off, carefully took the flowers from his date, and walked into the kitchen in search for a vase. Once the flowers were taken care of, he returned to Crowley.

“Do you have a preference?”

“Nah,” Crowley drawled, a lazy smirk spreading on their face, “Anything you want, angel.”

“Well, then.”

Azra offered Crowley his arm to hold onto and led them out of the shop and down the street.

“How’s the babysitting going, then?” Crowley asked after a while as they walked out of Soho.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s a disaster!” Azra moaned, delighting at the chuckle coming from his companion despite his own misery, “Who knew children would be so – so – so –”

“Bastardly?”

“So much hard work,” Azra finished, rolling his eyes at Crowley’s comment.

“You didn’t, apparently.”

It was invigorating, being with Crowley again like this. Talking and laughing, sitting side by side, eating crepes and drinking wine despite the early hour. A shadow lifted from the world. They strolled through St. James Park afterwards, another couple among many, followed by the hopeful gazes of the birds around them, and it hit Azra that this was it. This was what he wanted. Holding Crowley’s hand, hearing their voice, trying not to laugh at their crude jokes – without even really noticing, he had started to fall for the redhead, fast and deep, and he was falling still, flying, soaring through the air, and no sign of stopping. It was frightening. And yet, Azra welcomed it, cherished the fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever he as much as glanced Crowley’s way, and the joy at seeing Crowley smile. He’d never felt anything like it.

They stopped at the café, sitting outside in the sun, drinking tea, and Crowley told stories of their time as a babysitter, of their family, and of how hitting a young woman with your father’s car can sometimes lead to a beautiful friendship.

“And how is young Newt?” Azra asked. He’d taken a liking to the man, even if he’d only ever really met him once.

“He’s fine.” Crowley shrugged and emptied their tea. “Struggling through his degree. Probably better off doing something else.”

Azra frowned slightly. “He’s following his passion.”

“He’s giving a lot of money to an institution that keeps failing him,” Crowley retorted.

“Have you ever gone to college, dear?” They’d certainly never mentioned it, Azra thought, but then, they were still getting to know each other.

“Nah,” the redhead answered, leaning back in their chair, and most likely aiming for their usual nonchalance but mostly just hitting anxious and trying to hide it, “Wasn’t for me. Too restricted. ‘s no imagination there. Academia. Stuck up bunch of wankers. Not you, obviously.”

“I wouldn’t call myself the height of academia,” said Azra, “In fact,” he added, grimacing slightly at the memories pushing through, “According to my brother, most of my life choices have been a waste of potential.”

“Then your brother’s a prick.”

Azra smiled at Crowley’s words, their fierceness, the unwavering certainty in their voice.

“I followed my passion, my dear. It was worth it.”

Crowley was watching him from behind their sunglasses, an indulgent smile on their lips. “Speaking of passions,” they spoke up after a moment, “What do you fancy for dinner?”

“Oh – I was thinking. Sushi?”

“Sushi it is.”

There was a place that Azra loved, a small, family run business that always made sure to have his favourites on hand for when Azra came by. The food was as good as always but, Azra thought, it was the company that made it perfect; trying hard not to laugh at Crowley’s feeble attempts at using the chopsticks, the idle talk of everything and nothing, the shy smiles shared over the flickering candlelight. It made Azra want to draw out every bite, hoping to stay here just a little bit longer.

Of course, every moment, no matter how perfect, had to come to an end eventually. That was the problem with moments. They were fleeting, always chasing each other, always making room for new ones, and you never knew what you would end up with next.

The night air was cool and refreshing as Azra and Crowley walked back to Soho, the effulgent lights of the city watching their steps. They passed a group of young women, drunk and happy, staggering down the street as they talked and laughed, and Azra hoped they would get to their destination safely and without unwanted attention.

“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” Azra asked when they’d reached the shop.

Next to him, Crowley tensed, it was barely noticeable in the half-light but Azra could feel it, a change in the air, bursting the bubble around them.

“I – I’d love to,” Crowley said in a way that made it clear there was a ‘but’ coming, “But I better go home. Anathema’s gonna be wondering where I am.”

“Of course, my dear.” Something settled deep in Azra, then, a heavy weight, clenching around his heart. He didn’t quite know what it was, had no name for it, but he knew that it shouldn’t be there. That it had no reason to be there. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Azra took hold of Crowley’s hand and kissed it. “Mind how you go.”

He wasn’t sure, but Azra thought he could Crowley blushing as they leaned in and pressed their lips to Azra’s.

“I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

Soon wasn’t soon enough, Azra found. The days crept by torturously slow and his mind kept returning to that moment on his doorstep – Crowley had panicked, but why? It had been very similar to the time after their picnic.

_You’re overthinking this_ , _good fellow_ , he thought, _it probably doesn’t mean anything_.

Except what if it did?

_Well then perhaps we’re due a conversation._

Gabriel had called, too, telling him that he would pick up Adam on Sunday – “some time after lunch, I’m sure you don’t mind,” he’d said.

Azra very much did mind but hadn’t been able to say so before Gabriel had ended the call. Still. There was a silver lining.

_I should ask Crowley to come over._

And there was the bright sun pushing the dark clouds far away.

Azra was giddy all Sunday, nearly burning the eggs, as he started thinking about what he and Crowley could do. The weather wasn’t the best but perhaps a cuppa and some cake in the café down the road. Or, Azra mused excitedly, he could read to Crowley again. The thought of running his fingers through their hair, the memory of their head in his lap, made Azra shudder. He was getting ahead of himself, of course. It was still early and Adam was still there and there was breakfast to be had. He would have to daydream later, or better yet, he could simply wait until his dreams became reality in just a short few hours.

He turned the only slightly burned eggs and hummed to himself as he buttered the toasts. Behind him, at the table, Adam was playing with his phone, probably wondering why his uncle was in such a good mood.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a truth universally acknowledges that Murphy’s Law only applied when you really didn’t need it to apply.

First Anathema had hogged the shower for hours until there was no hot water left, then Crowley’s hair had refused to cooperate, then all Azra-appropriate clothes had seemed to have vanished, then there was a minor accident involving a misplaced shoe and some scalding hot coffee, forcing Crowley to change once more, and _then_ there had been a not-so-minor accident just outside the house involving a car and another car and loads of shouting and a punch to the face and Crowley had, naturally, had to stop and stare, and _now_ Crowley was late.

Azra had said 2 p.m.

It was 2:32.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley called out while entering the bookshop, the bell above the door chimed furiously at the disturbance, “There were. Things. Happening. Plural. Cars and coffee and clothes and –” Whatever else Crowley had been about to say was turned into stunned silence.

In the backroom of the shop stood Azra, his back straight and his face pinched, and across from his stood the boy, flanked by two men. One was tall and had the distinctive look of someone who had motivational quotes hanging on his office walls and drank protein drinks for breakfast while looking down on everyone around him with barely contained disdain, while the other was painfully familiar and awakened some deep fight-or-flight reflexes in Crowley who chose the only viable option – freeze.

“Crowley!” Azra cried out, visibly relaxing at the sight of his friend, “I’m ever so sorry to cut this short,” he said to Sandalphon and the other one, not sounding sorry at all, “But we made plans that we simply mustn’t be late for.”

That was a big, fat lie but Crowley was more than willing to roll with it if it meant not being in the same room as both Sandalphon and Azra at the same time.

“Yep,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’ and nodding vigorously, “Big planny plans.”

The other man who was, now that Crowley thought about it, probably Azra’s brother, made a complicated face somewhere between mocking, disgust, and offended, before grabbing the boy’s shoulder and steering him towards the door. Sandalphon followed. For a moment, one beautiful moment, it almost looked like that would be the end of it.

And then Sandalphon turned around just before walking out the door, looked straight at Azra, and said, “I wasn’t aware you consorted with common whores, Azra. I’d be careful, if I were you. You don’t know where he’s been.” And then Sandalphon left.

Under different circumstances Crowley would have come up with an appropriate response along the lines of, “at least this common whore doesn’t blackmail people into unprotected sex,” or maybe, “just a week ago you didn’t care where I’ve been”, or perhaps even, “Does your wife know what you get up to in your free time?” But, of course, the circumstances were as they were, and Crowley remained silent

“Cheek!” Azra exclaimed after the bell above the door had chimed again and the two were alone in the back of the shop, “Can you believe it? The audacity! And in front of the boy, too, oh! Crowley, I’m so terribly sorry, I honestly don’t know what – Crowley?”

Azra was positively seething while Crowley had been edging further and further back, not quite capable of processing what had just happened beyond _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK_.

“Crowley, are you alright?”

This time, Crowley chose flight.

* * *

At 16, Crowley had stolen his dad’s car to impress a boy in his school.

The boy had not been impressed. Neither had been the police officer who had stopped Crowley for speeding. Neither had been his dad who had had to pick up his car and child at the police station. Crowley still remembered the way his heart had hammered in his chest, back then, the way his lungs had been too tight for the air they needed, the way his hands had shook in his lap as he had waited.

This was a bit like that.

Crowley was waiting, though for what she couldn’t have said, as she sat on the floor of the flat, her back pressed against the door and –

There it was.

Her phone was ringing – Azra. Of course it was Azra…who else would it be?

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

If she’d just stayed and laughed it off it would have been fine but _nooo, I had to go and panic and run and Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, why?_

The phone rang again.

And again.

And again.

“Crowley?” Crowley tensed. “Are you in there, Crowley? The nice lady from downstairs let me in, I – I understand if you want me to leave. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Sandalphon he – he works with my brother. A policeman, no less, I – He had no right to use such crude language.” Crowley closed her eyes. Of fucking course Sandalphon was a cop. “Crowley?” Azra called out again. It sounded as if he was standing right behind the door.

Crowley opened her mouth to answer but no words came, instead she picked up the phone with shaking hands and opened Azra’s contact.

_Im fine_

“Crowley?” Azra sounded so damn hopeful and it didn’t take much for Crowley’s mind to conjure up an image of the blond – plump and beautiful and perfect, with his pale blue eyes, the tiniest frown pulling on the corners of his mouth. What Crowley wouldn’t give to turn it into a smile. “Crowley, do you want me to leave?”

_No_

If he left now, who knew if he would ever come back?

_Sandalphon wasnt lying yknow. Im a common whore_

There was a moment of silence and Crowley thought Azra might have left after all, might have – but no. Something was moving there on the other side, sliding down the wooden door. Crowley frowned. Had Azra sat down as well?

“There’s nothing common about you, my dear,” Azra said, the barest hint of a smile sounding through, “You’re really quite extraordinary.” _What?_ “I – Well. I knew – I suspected, that is – that you weren’t a tax accountant. I don’t think they work Sunday nights.”

That was fair, all things considered.

Slowly, Crowley rose from the floor and turned around to face the door. It wouldn’t take much – an outstretched hand and a gentle pull – to let Azra in.

When her dad had arrived at the police station, Crowley had expected fury and outrage, but what he had found had been worry and love.

Before she could change her mind, Crowley opened the door.

There was Azra, exactly as she had pictured him, prim and proper, his eyes filled with concern and something else, something she couldn’t quite place.

“Before you start wondering,” she started, the words coming freely now and her voice unwavering, “I wasn’t forced into it. I wasn’t abused as a child. I’ve never been raped. I don’t have any overwhelming debts or addictions. I just made a choice.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume any such thing,” Azra said. Coming from anyone else it would have sounded like empty platitudes, hollow words that held no meaning, but coming from him? Crowley believed him was the thing, wanted to believe him.

Without further words, Crowley stepped aside, hoping that Azra would get the silent invitation. He did.

The flat was nice, and it occurred to Crowley that Azra had never been here before, that they had always met at the bookshop. This was new.

The walls were white and the furniture stylish without being uncomfortable. Luscious, green plants were lining the corridor towards the living room – Crowley’s domain – while the various books, maps, and illustrations strewn all over the sofa and coffee table belonged, unmistakably, to Anathema.

“Tea?”

“That would be lovely, my dear.”

Azra was sitting on the sofa when Crowley returned with two mugs, letting his eyes wander, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

“So,” she prompted, sitting down on the other end of the sofa and resisting the urge to sprawl out the way she always did, instead satisfying herself with pulling up her knees to her chest.

“So,” Azra echoed. He was cradling his cup in both hands, probably to keep them from fidgeting.

“What now?”

Azra licked his lips. “Now we talk,” he said slowly, “My de – Crowley. Whatever may come of – that is – regardless of what happened between us during the past month, you are my friend first and I’d like to keep it that way. I daresay that is more important to me than any romance could ever be.”

There was hope there. Crowley could feel it. The very air was brimming with it. A vibration rippling through the tension that had built up, loosening the knots and allowing Crowley to breathe freely.

“You’re my best friend,” Crowley said. It was an easy thing to say. The next bit however – Crowley took a deep breath to steel herself and continued, “You’re my best friend, angel, and I fell in love with you, and I would do a lot of things to make you happy, but I will not change who I am. You should – you should know that. I don’t love my job, but it’s my job and I’m bloody good at it, and I’ll keep it for as long as I want.”

There was a faint smile crinkling the corners of Azra’s eyes as he tentatively reached out to take Crowley’s hand into his, his thump running circles over her skin.

“I would never ask that of you, my dear,” he muttered, eyes downcast and watching their hands, “And I – I love you, too. Like I said, you’re really quite extraordinary.” His eyes flitted upwards to meet Crowley’s and she could see the truth there in the depths of the blue skies. “I have to ask, though,” Azra continued, “Considering your…occupation…” _Oh, here it comes_. “How important is sex to you in a romantic relationship?”

_What?_

“What?”

Azra gulped audibly, his hand twitching in Crowley’s but not pulling away. Not yet.

“How important is sex to you in a romantic relationship?” Azra asked again. The question didn’t make any more sense than it had the first time around.

“Why?”

“Because just like you, I have boundaries which I am not willing to cross, things I am not willing to change, and sex is one of those.”

Crowley blinked, the words slowly sinking in and connecting the dots. “Oh.”

“I understand if that is too much to –”

“Me too!” Crowley said quickly, cutting off whatever Azra had been about to say, “I’m ace.”

“A – Ace?”

“Asexual,” she confirmed but Azra still looked utterly confused, “No sexual attraction? The whole thing makes you go somewhere between ‘meh’ to ‘yuck’?”

“Oh.” Lips slightly parted, Azra stared at him for a moment. “Oh, I didn’t…” He trailed off, but Crowley thought she could fill in the blanks.

“Didn’t know that’s what it was called? That it was called anything?” she offered and Azra nodded, “Well, it is. Nothing wrong with it.” Slowly, she moved closer across to the couch towards Azra, their legs pressed together. “’m more on the ‘meh’ side, myself. ‘s a bit like football, y’know? Can be fun once in a while with the right person but I wouldn’t miss it if it was gone and I’d never go up to anyone and say ‘hey, wanna play football?’. Pays the bills, that’s all I need.”

Azra was looking at her now, eyes wide and suspiciously wet, as he raised her hand up to his lips. “Thank you.”

“The hell you thanking me for, now?”

“Everything.”

_Well don’t_ , she wanted to say, _I didn’t do anything_.

_Thank you_ , she wanted to say, _for putting up with me_.

_I love you_ , she wanted to say.

But she didn’t. She remained silent.

Azra was so close, warm and soft, sitting right there next to her, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to hug him, bury her face in his neck and hold on tight, and that’s exactly what she did. Strong arms closed around her, cradling her sharp lines and edges, and together they simply lay there and breathed and lived.


	10. Epiloge

Azra glared at the closed wardrobe. More specifically, he glared at the mirror that was on the door of the wardrobe. Most specifically, he glared at himself. There was nothing special to see, really. His hair had a silver tint and the curls had grown slightly over the last few years, his face showed more lines around the eyes, and his belly was rounder than ever. None of that was a problem. He was aging well, if he said so himself.

The problem was the bowtie. It was lopsided.

With a sigh, Azra pulled it off and ran his fingers over the light rose fabric before putting it around his neck for the sixth time in a row. He was wearing a cream coloured dress shirt underneath his favourite brown waist coat, the one that was so worn-out and well-loved, it showed exactly where his fingers gripped to tuck it down over his tummy. With quick, learned movements, he re-tied the knot and nodded in satisfaction when it finally sat straight underneath his chin. He was just about to put on his coat when Crowley re-emerged from the bathroom.

“Ready, love?”

“Ready, angel.”

Crowley looked as stunning as ever. Hair still long and bright red, braided back with pretty, gold ribbons. An all-black suit that showed off the trim lines and sharp angles. Artistic make-up of gold and black and red. Azra quickly checked the position of the silver snake ring and saw that it still hugged the right index finger. Mostly male, then. It had taken a lot of time and several talks for them to work out this system for Crowley to let Azra know which pronouns were most appropriate at any given moment. There were still days were Crowley didn’t wear the ring at all, of course, those were the days where Azra made sure to either not use any pronouns, or use them all. Azra suspected that the ring was more for his comfort than Crowley’s but it worked and Crowley didn’t seem to mind and that was that.

So much had changed.

Newt had graduated after his third try and then immediately decided he’d rather pursue a career that didn’t involve computers or engineering, working first in a museum, then a brewery, and was now happily settled as a chef in a hotel. He still kept the framed certificate hanging on the wall of the apartment he shared with Anathema. Tracy and Shadwell, whose first name Azra still didn’t know, had finally retired to a little cottage in a village called Tadfield. And Crowley had moved into the shop, well, the flat above it, at any rate. He still saw the occasional regular and when he did, Azra made sure to have tea and biscuits at the ready. It was domestic and perfect and, if Azra had any say in it, it would change even more after tonight.

They had a table at the Indian restaurant in Covent Garden where they’d had their very first date, 5 years to the day after said date, and the little box inside the pocket of Azra’s coat weighted heavy as they made the short drive in the Bentley. Crowley’s father had, after a bad fright, decided that, perhaps, it was time to part from the car and use public transport instead, a decision Crowley had very much supported.

The restaurant looked much the same. The ivy was thriving and the inside was warm and welcoming, the smell of spices and wood hanging in the air. For a moment, Azra flirted with the idea of going down on his knee right there and then, but – no. No, he had to wait, had to be patient. It wouldn’t do to rush these things. Everything had to be perfect.

They sat down at their table and Raj, their waiter, brought wine and the menus and told Azra that it was his first day, that he had a sister in New Zealand and was saving money to visit her, and a brother who was about to take his GCSEs. Across the table, Crowley rolled his eyes and tried to hide his fond smile; naturally, it didn’t work very well.

“You’re incorrigible, angel,” Crowley said after Raj had left with their orders.

“Are you complaining, my dear?”

Crowley raised his glass. “Nah,” he answered while Azra followed his example, “To us.”

“To us.”

Time was a strange thing when you didn’t pay attention to it. One moment Azra and Crowley were sitting in the restaurant, drinking wine and enjoying their food, talking about the bookshop and Crowley’s mum’s upcoming birthday and Crowley’s vague plans of maybe going to university after all, and the next they were back in the Bentley. It wasn’t late yet, by any means. The perfect time for a night-stroll Azra thought and said as much to Crowley as soon as he’d parked the car in Soho, who immediately took hold of Azra’s arm and gently steered him away from the door, down Piccadilly, through Green Park and into St. James Park.

Some other couples were enjoying the peace and quiet of the park, alongside the occasional jogger and dogwalker, but none of them took any notice of Azra and Crowley as they went past and, despite his growing nerves, Azra couldn’t help but smile.

They crossed the bridge, stopping to look over the lake. The city lights were shining brightly all around them, an ambulance rushed down the Mall, and somewhere in the growing darkness, an owl hooted faintly.

“Crowley,” Azra said, swallowing around his dry throat, reaching up to fiddle with his bowtie.

Crowley was stood next to him, draped over the bannister, the very embodiment of nonchalance, but Azra thought he knew better. There was a kind of anticipation there, as if his partner knew something was about happen.

“Angel?”

Taking one last deep breath, Azra pushed himself off the bannister he’d been leaning on and turned to face Crowley. He was beautiful in the pale lights of the night. Slowly, deliberately, Azra lowered himself onto one knee while pulling out the little, black box from his coat, staring at it, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to look at Crowley just yet.

“Crowley,” he said again and opened the box. The ring inside was plain gold with a single wing – the wedding ring held the other and would complete the image. Or so Azra hoped. Above him, Crowley let out a soft gasp. “I love you, Crowley,” Azra exclaimed, daring to look up. Crowley was staring at him, lips slightly parted and perfectly still. “I never thought I would find someone like you, someone I want to spend every second of every day with, someone I want to live my life with, someone extraordinary. But I did. I found you. You are my best friend. You make me laugh and you let me cry, you make me happy and you let me be sad, you listen and you let me listen, you make me feel loved and you let me love you. Crowley –” Azra wetted his lips, trying to blink the tears away that were blurring his vision, “—Anthony J. Crowley, will you marry me?”

Crowley was crying, too. Crying and smiling. “You bastard,” he muttered, getting down on his knee as well, holding a box in his hand, not unlike Azra’s, “You stole my lines,” he continued, furiously wiping his free hand over his face, “I prepared a speech and everything.”

The ring Crowley was offering was a silver snake, almost like the one he was already wearing, but more delicate, more detailed, and infinitely more beautiful – Azra was sure he could have counted its scales if only he tried.

“I look forward to hearing it, my love,” he told Crowley, his voice somewhat wobbly and filled with emotion. His cheeks stung from how hard he was smiling, his knees started to get sore, but none of that mattered because Crowley was reaching out, cradling his face with the hand that didn’t hold the ring, drawing him closer.

“Yes,” Crowley whispered, his hot breath brushing Azra’s lips, “The answer yes.”

The kiss that followed might have been the best of Azra’s life and there, kneeling on the bridge of St. James Park in the fluorescent lights of London and the promise of a future together, Azra knew he’d found a home.


End file.
